In the second episode of Views of Altea we are on Calle Sol talking about the house my husband and I purchased in Altea. Press on the play button to listen or read the transcript below.

VIEWS OF ALTEA EPISODE 02 TRANSCRIPT

Welcome to Views of Altea. My name is Mercedes Carrabba.

Today we are standing on Calle Sol, at the southern end of the Casco Antiguo. In front of us is a huge disfigured old pine tree. Its right side was amputated years ago, inadvertently opening up gorgeous views of the coastline. The tree is filled with the nests of collared doves and European wood pigeons. It stands regally on the hillside, one of the few remaining large pines in Altea.

From here, you can see Calpe in the distance, and La Olla. When the great fireworks display erupts over the bay in August, this little corner of Calle Sol fills with spectators. Today, we're staying right here on this corner. Because today I want to tell you about the house my husband and I bought here.

To begin, we have to go back to 2023.

I was visiting Altea on Father's Day. It was Sunday, six in the morning, and I was alone, walking through the streets and mourning the death of my father. I was returning to places in Altea that had been significant during his years here. I was coming down a path when I noticed something strange in the entrance of a house: a golden statue of a Chinese warrior.

Its head was missing.

My father had the same statue outside his art studio in the United States. And his was also missing its head. I remember standing there wondering: what are the odds?

I looked more closely at the house. There were Buddhas in the windows. Through the glass I could see flashes of red and gold, hints of something exotic inside. The house itself somehow reminded me of my father—his abstract nature, his love of color, his attraction to things with character. And it was for sale. It had a certain beauty, but it also looked lonely and neglected. I took several photographs that morning and later showed them to my husband. I told him, "If we ever live in Altea, I think this will be the house we live in."

And then I forgot about it. But I kept the photographs. They are still on my phone, datestamped June 18, 2023.

Exactly one year later, I was back in Altea, working on my master's thesis. By chance or by fate I met a real estate agent on a bus. She insisted that there was a special house she wanted me to see, but she wouldn't tell me which one. We walked through the old town, and when we turned onto Calle Sol, and I saw the pine tree, I realized where she was taking me.

It was the house. The same house I had photographed a year earlier. And I realized something else. It was June 18, 2024. Exactly one year to the day after I had first stood outside it. The agent opened the door, and for the first time, I stepped inside. It was extraordinary. Eccentric. Garish. Gold everywhere. There were Buddha statues in the main room and gold tassels hanging from the windows. Nearly every surface appeared to have been painted or decorated by the previous owner himself.

The entire house, from one floor to the next, was an extension of his personality. Even though he had died several years earlier, his presence felt tactile. Immediate. It was as though he had just left the room.

That day I met his sister. She was mourning the loss of her brother. I was mourning the loss of my father. I didn't know her. She didn't know me. But for a moment, standing in the stillness of this strange, beautiful house on Calle Sol, we held each other and cried. I left that day not thinking we would buy the house. My husband and I weren't looking for a house. We weren't planning to move to Spain. Then the estate agent called me. She told me the family was going to wait on accepting any offers until we had a chance to make one. They felt we were the right people for the house.

So I called my husband. "Could we actually do this?” And suddenly, something that hadn't seemed possible began to seem possible. If we bought the house, I could pursue Spanish citizenship. My husband could retire. We could live in Altea, the place where I was born. And we would have a home large enough for family and friends to come and stay with us. Plus, we'd have about a dozen golden Buddhas.

Within a week, we had figured out how to make it work. And by August, my husband was standing in Altea with the keys to the front door. We now own the house on Calle Sol. Some of the buddhas are still here and the statue of the Chinese warrior now has a head, with several sun hats resting on top.

The walls of the house are covered with art work from the many places my husband and I have lived. We have also framed many of our memories, like the journal entry I once wrote describing my future husband, matching the man I married long before I met him, and the menu from our wedding night. There is also a framed postcard my father wrote years ago. He wrote it sitting in a café in Olympia, Washington, where we used to meet for breakfast when I was in my twenties. Our time together was often like that—in the earliest part of the morning, sitting across from each other over breakfast. His message on the postcard is poetic. He writes:

“Once again I tried to make sense of where I was. Was it Charleston, South Carolina? Park Slope? Quintana Roo? Costa Blanca?”

All places where he and I had sat together over similar breakfasts, at different times in our lives. I think about that postcard now, hanging here in the house. About my father poetically trying to make sense of where he was. And about me, years later, walking alone through Altea at six o'clock in the morning, trying to make sense of where I was without him. I believe he greeted me in Altea that morning. And I believe, in some way, he guided me to the house on Calle Sol.

Views of Altea Podcast 02 - Calle Sol